Incidents
by BlueSuedeShoes23
Summary: COMPLETE Ghosts aren't the only thing keeping Lucy Carlyle up at night. Lately, it seems to Luce that Lockwood has been using any excuse he can to make her blush. Is it all in her head, or is Anthony Lockwood a notorious tease? A series of loosely-connected oneshots.
1. Chapter 1

_Incident one-_

It wasn't often that Lockwood and Co found ourselves relaxing at home in the evening, particularly on a long winter's night when all manner of spectres prowled the streets well into foggy morning. I sat, slumped in the armchair of the receiving room, reading the same cheap detective novel I'd read twice already. Lockwood dozed quietly on the chair opposite, his dark flop of hair concealing his eyes, long legs crossed on the ottoman before him. He wore a warm-colored jumper—slightly more casual than his usual getup—and grey woolen socks on his feet. I suppressed a stupid smile; I'd given him the socks the day before, on Christmas. Catching myself mid-stare, I stuck my nose firmly in my book again. George had been giving me _knowing_ looks lately, and I didn't want to give him any more ammunition than he already had. As I thought of this, faint heat prickled slightly in my cheeks.

Thankfully, George paid me no attention tonight; he had pancaked his ample bottom next to the coffee table between us, where all his attentions were devoted to assembling a bothersome Rotwell ghost-detection do-dad. It was made of a light, coated silver, and its many parts tickled slightly, like tiny bells, whenever they moved. His back faced me. At the table's corner, the skull in the jar lurked unseen behind a fog of swirling green. It had been unusually quiet these past two hours, for which I was grateful. It was about time the damned thing started reading the atmosphere. Tonight was for relaxation, lukewarm tea, and amicable silence. I adjusted the quilt around my shoulders, sinking deeper into the armchair. The room was warm. A faint, comforting smell of brewed black tea lingered on the air. The tink, tink, tinkling of George's contraption—a minute, peripheral noise.

Despite myself, I found my gaze wandering towards the dozing Lockwood again, as it had numerous times that evening. I had detected something different about him, but until now I couldn't place what it was. Now I saw it with clarity.

His face had changed this past year. Though still slim, his jaw was squarer and more pronounced. At the same time, the shadows under his cheekbones had sharpened, masculinizing his once boyish features. I followed them down to his chin, my cheeks flushing a bit, to his slightly parted lips…

 _He sees you, you know._

I nearly jumped out of my chair, but weeks of avoiding accusatory stares from George saved me from having to explain myself. At the last second, I rolled over to make it seem as if I had merely decided to change into a more comfortable sitting position. George scratched his knee, unperturbed, his back still facing me. I felt my face redden. Lockwood…had seen me? My eyes locked with the skull in the jar's, barely visible behind a haze of green ghost fog. My expression said it all. It grinned evilly up at me.

 _It's true, he's caught you watching him through that flop of fringe. Probably feeling rather awkward by now, I would imagine. You haven't been very sly…_ The effect was immediate. I felt the blood drain from my face. My heart leaped to my throat. Oh, no. He can't have seen. I'd been practically ogling him on-and-off for the past _hour_ \- Lockwood can't have noticed. He was sleeping.

 _How embarrassing. Oh, you better conceal your mortification a bit better—he'll begin to clue in. Oh, looks like he already has._

I couldn't help it—I stole another glance. Was Lockwood…seated a tad straighter than he was a moment ago? I looked hurriedly away, and a wave of shame flooded through me again, setting my face on fire. I glued my eyes to my book. The skull was lying. It was just trying to upset me. Lockwood was definitely asleep.

Quite suddenly, Lockwood moved. He stood up. "I think I'll head to bed," he said, giving a quick stretch and not looking in my direction. George grunted something incomprehensible.

 _What did I tell you._

It was too much of a coincidence. I couldn't speak; my eyes could only look intently at the pages in front of me, which might as well have been blank for all the reading I was doing. Lockwood strode passed me, out of sight. The slight change of air pressure in the room told me he had opened the door behind me. He was gone.

I felt myself go a bit numb. The metal ghost detection do-dad gave tiny chimes from the coffee table. I heard George scratch something on a piece of paper. The tinkling sound of his fiddling intensified, and he cursed under his breath. I waited. Then a tidal wave of shame and dread coursed through me, and my body weighed down in the armchair like bags of salt. The reality might as well have slapped me in the face: Lockwood had caught me staring at him and was so uncomfortable he had felt the need _to leave the_ _room._ I put my hand up to my temple, concealing my burning face.

Suddenly, the pressure in the room changed again. Without sound or other forewarning, there was a warm, tickling breath in my ear and slim fingers smoothing along my jaw: "So sorry, Luce," breathed Lockwood, his voice hardly audible even to myself, "Nearly forgot-" Just as suddenly as he had entered the study, his lips pressed softly and deliberately against my cheek. Time stopped. He smelled faintly of cologne. His eyelashes brushed gently under the delicate skin of my eye. I heard my breath hitch in my throat and realized my eyes had closed. He lingered for a second longer, and parted. I felt his warm breath on my cheek again, "Night, Lucy." And then the slim fingers were absent from my face, and the pressure in the room changed for the final time that evening.

Oblivious, George continued to sit with his back facing me and the door, the tinkling of his Rotwell contraption seemingly never ceasing. In the jar, the skull's jaw had dropped to the bottom of the glass. Judging from its reaction, what had just happened…was real. Not for the first time that evening, my face and neck were set aflame—but this time, from a different kind of embarrassment.

"Hey," George said, speaking for the first time in hours, "Mind making another cuppa—"

"Let it alone, George!" I snapped.

George turned around then, his expression utterly confused. "What's _your_ problem?"

Though it seemed impossible, I felt my face grow hotter. "Nothing. Sorry. I just," I shot up from my chair, my detective novel tumbling from my lap. I ignored it. "I-I'm going to bed." And just like that, I left him there, hunched over the coffee table, mouth hanging open. So much for not giving George any more ammunition, I thought. As I hurried my way up the dark stairwell and into my attic bedroom, I wondered if Lockwood had felt the burning heat in my face against his lips, and then I slammed my bedroom door against such embarrassing thoughts.


	2. Chapter 2

**_A/N: Thanks for all the lovely reviews! This next incident is decidedly more *coughs* Well, you'll see. Let me know if I'm doing anything right/ weird-writing romantic scenes is difficult and I'm trying to improve, so I appreciate the feedback._**

 _Incident 2_

If things were awkward between Lockwood and me after the incident in the receiving room, it was completely one-sided on my part. Lockwood went on as if nothing at all had happened between us, and after a week or so had passed, I felt (more or less) at ease in his presence again. I wrote off the incident as another Lockwood eccentricity. Cases continued to roll in, sources neutralized, tea and biscuits consumed. I had more important things to do than wonder at Lockwood's misdirected flights of fancy, and when my mind wandered back to that night in the study, I redirected it to safer waters. Interestingly enough, George never mentioned my outburst again, for which I was grateful. The same could not be said of the skull in the jar, which had been stuffed in a huff under my bed, its lid tight shut, after a particularly colorful comment. So vulgar was the skull's remark that I resolved to leave it there for at least three days.

Tonight, though, Lockwood and Co. prepared for a formal party hosted by the Rotwell agency. It promised to be a dull affair, but Lockwood assured us that receiving such invitations was a good sign: Lockwood and Co. was finally being taken seriously, so we'd better get used to the idea of dressing up on occasion.

Unfortunately for me, the blue dress I had worn to Penelope Fitte's ball no longer fit, so I was forced to go shopping again. I ended up settling for a purple dress with a wide, scooping neck, sheer sleeves, and a cinched waist. I looked at it on me now in my cracked wardrobe mirror with a critical eye, fiddling with the impossible ribbon looped around my midriff. It was a frilly thing—all twists and unnecessary extra fabric, utterly not my style—which I was half-tempted to remove before I noticed it was strung through and around the actual fabric of the dress. No matter how much I tied and retied it, I couldn't get it to look anything like it had on the manikin in the store.

"Lucy!" Lockwood's clear voice carried from the stairwell below. "Are you about done? We were supposed to leave five minutes ago."

I muttered a mild curse under my breath. "J-just a moment! I'll be right down. It's just…" I fidgeted some more with the ribbon—the ugly knot I had made refused to come undone. "…this _dress_."

I heard long, loping strides on the stairs, and then Lockwood's voice emanated from my open doorway: "The _dress_ is giving you trouble?" I looked over my shoulder at him and flushed. He wore one of his smarter suits—slightly too tight on him—with the ease and grace of someone born in it. His dark hair was swept out of his eyes; he appraised me with an almost quizzical air as he approached, lingering on my excuse for a bow. At that moment, I couldn't help but compare us: his elegance against my incompetence. Sure, I could skewer an advancing raw-bones with an adept twirl of my rapier—and neutralize its Source to boot—but what kind of girl couldn't tie a pretty bow?

I looked away, fumbling feebly, _stupidly_ with the knot, mumbling under my breath: "It's just, sorry, this dumb-"

"Can I help you with that?" Lockwood said, and before I could answer, his long fingers had brushed mine aside to fiddle with the ribbon tied around the front of my waist. My face caught fire; my words died a quick death on my lips. Lockwood's gaze fixated on my torso, too intent on the knot to notice my reaction. Yet surely he could hear my heartbeat?

Ridiculous. I needed to calm down, remember my training. He was a stupid boy, not a vengeful spirit. An obstinate Type Two touching me? No. This? I could handle. After all, he was just trying to help.

Swallowing hard, I tried to ignore the gentle tugs and pulls of Lockwood's fingers near my sensitive stomach. Looking across the room at a corner of my attic ceiling, I followed one of the cracked lines of crumbling plaster with my eyes. Up, down, to the side, and back again… Lockwood shifted, and I bit my lip. He was so _close_.

"Oh, this is rather tight…" he said. And he stepped closer. His soft hair brushed against my temple. I inhaled the intoxicating scent of his cologne. My meagre concentration was shattered; an overwhelming influx of _Lockwood_ dominated my senses with sweeping finality. With every tug and pull of his slim fingers at the knot, my stomach somersaulted. A flush crept down my neck.

I needed to step away, but I struggled to find the words. "Lock-"

"There!" he exclaimed, and his warm breath brushed along the side of my face. I felt a loosening at the front of my waist, and saw that the ribbon was untied, one end in each of Lockwood's slender hands. "Now all there's left to do is to tie it properly…" he said, and I looked up from the ribbon to meet his face.

Which was directly in front of mine. I blushed scarlet. He smiled, nearly blinding me by its radiance. His sparkling dark eyes were fixated on mine, framed by long lashes. I forgot to breathe. I forgot my own name. He spoke softly, each word caressing my face, and I blinked back as if from a strong wind: "So the trick is to use two fingers when doing the loop, like _so_." He looked down, and his spell was momentarily broken; I took in an embarrassing, shaky breath, tried to steady my erratic heartbeat.

Without warning, he tugged at the ribbon, jutting me forwards so I was almost on top of him. A loud gasp escaped my lips. Lockwood leaned over me. I became aware of how tightly my world had compacted since he had stepped foot in my room. There was only him; he was everywhere all at once. How did we end up like this? He tilted his head.

"Too tight?" he murmured, his warm breath filling my ear. Goosebumps formed along my arms. I felt my breath hitch in my throat. Then his slim fingers were circling my waist, roaming freely, slowly—back and forth.

"Sorry," murmured Lockwood, yet his hands still dabbled about my middle. His breath warmed my ear again: "The ribbon is twisted around you—that's why it wasn't tying in a proper bow. Just a moment." It was then I realized that his dancing fingers were slowly untwisting the ribbon trapped underneath the first layer of fabric in the cinch of the dress. Heat expanded down to my shoulders, but I managed a nod. He gave a soft and short laugh.

At Lockwood's attentions, I felt the twisted ribbon straighten in the back, then at my sides. I swallowed again; at his every unexpected movement, every sweeping touch, my heart quite nearly stopped. He sure was taking his sweet time of it. How _did_ his fingers seemed to linger. How much more I could take of this?

I tried to concentrate on breathing. This mind-calming technique showed to be as ineffective as my first. Lockwood was so immediately _there_ , it was downright impossible. Soft, dark hair brushed along my cheek, filling my nose with his scent. His breath was everywhere: in my ear, along my face, down my neck, even skimming along my collarbone as he bent over slightly to study a stubborn area of twisted ribbon. I swallowed. My heart couldn't take it; it would surely explode. Suddenly, his fingers traced along the front, to the back, to the front of my waist again. I shuddered at their touch, leaning instinctively away. "Lucy." I opened my eyes a crack, which I had closed, and again his face was there. He smiled warmly. "Got it! _Now_ we can tie the bow."

"Y-Yep," I squeaked. Lockwood smiled, looking down.

"Hmm," he said, leaning into me even more, crooning into my ear. My knees wobbled. "Let's see if I remember how to do this…" His fingers ambled idly around my waist, skimming first along the top, and then at the bottom of the ribbon's width. Eventually, purposely, they made their way along to the front of the dress again. Butterflies swarmed wherever he touched. To my eternal embarrassment, I gave a little sigh. I felt, rather than saw, him smile in response. "Let's see…" he said, and I glanced down at his hands which still held the untied ribbon's ends—hands once elegant and assured, now _suspiciously_ clumsy and fumbling. Without warning, he looked up at me from underneath his lashes and smiled. "Just kidding."

Without further ado, he tied the ribbon into a perfect, plump bow at the front of my waist, and stepped aside. Instantly, I felt a bit cold without him near, though there had never been a draft in my attic bedroom before. "There you go, Luce," Lockwood said, smiling. "You look lovely." He paused. "I'll give you a minute to, ah…" He laughed then, turned, and descended the staircase. I looked at myself in the wardrobe mirror.

My face down to my shoulders shone as red as a baboon's backside.

Stuff being late. The boys could wait. As if I could let George see me like _this_.


	3. Chapter 3

**_A/N- Thank you all so, so much for the reviews! I really appreciate them more than you know. Apologies for the delay-I'm in the throes of Nanowrimo right now and it's sapping me of all writerly energy. Let me know what I'm doing right/ weird. As I said before, writing romantic scenes is difficult and I'm trying to improve :P Thanks again for reading. Hope you enjoy!_**

 _Incident 3_

Aside from a narrow encounter involving George, an entire tray of Swedish meatballs, and the very expensive dress of the Rotwell vice president's daughter, the Rotwell party proved to be as dull as Lockwood and Co. expected it to be. Lockwood schmoozed. George hovered by the dessert table. I tried to look busy without actually going to the trouble of talking to anyone. We returned home, exhausted, and hurried off to bed. Days later, the only thing I could clearly remember about the event was what had happened before between Lockwood, me, and my dress with the ribbon.

It wasn't as easy to brush off this incident as I had the goodnight kiss in the receiving room. For one thing, the receiving room incident was no longer an isolated occasion, which—in my mind—gave both incidents a heavier weight. For another—and I felt myself redden each time the thought surfaced in my mind—I was quite certain that Lockwood had been _teasing_ me before the Rotwell party. Had he really needed to stand so closely? To take so long to untie, then retie, the ribbon about my waist? I remembered the way his fingers lingered about my middle, his warm breath against my ear, his sly smile when I gave that _mortifying_ sigh…

Suffice it to say that I was actively avoiding being alone with him, which (given Lockwood and Co.'s living situation) was surprisingly easy to do. I was a little confused, a whole lot embarrassed, and wholly unexperienced in the romantic area, and I had no intention of delving into it further. I didn't know what Lockwood's game was—perhaps he did like me. But I'm a realist at heart, and my gut told me this was more about him than about me—that he _enjoyed_ teasing me because it made him feel good to see my reactions to his attentions. When I thought about the incidents like this, my face burned with self-conscious anger rather than pure embarrassment, and it was easier to evade him. I did so stealthily, so as not to raise suspicions, but in truth I wondered how long I would feel the need to avoid him at all.

Seemingly, life went on at our little agency. We tackled cases, ordered equipment, the usual. Yet under the surface, I went out of my way to circumvent any sort of alone time with Lockwood. During cases, I volunteered for the jobs that required an agent to be alone—easy enough to do, given my Talent for Listening. After all, listeners—myself included—often need complete silence to hear supernatural phenomena. It was even easier back home at Portland Row; I was aware of his routine. When I knew Lockwood would be in a particular room, I wasn't. It was that simple.

A week or so passed like this when I noticed that Lockwood, after two years of consistent at-home behavior, had suddenly decided to change his schedule. Where before he would shower before coming to breakfast, now when his bedroom door creaked open in the morning I heard him galloping down the stair immediately. Where before he would have his tea perched precariously on the edge of his favorite armchair in the receiving room, now he drank it wherever: the front porch, the living room couch, the stairwell, even the kitchen table. They were small changes, yes—but I noticed them.

My room became my haven. It remained the only place Lockwood would not go, not at least without a good excuse. I found myself sketching again on my bed. I finished that cheap detective novel—even after the third read, I still didn't understand the ending (and I suspected that the author didn't, either).

When I was tired of drawing and reading, I finally fished the skull in the jar out from under my bed. He'd been there longer than I had anticipated—a little more than two weeks—so when I popped the flip-tab open I expected some rude opening words.

The skull exceeded expectations. I almost stuffed it back under the mattress, but self-isolation made me a bit lonely. I decided to give it an undeserved warning. "Watch it!" I said. "Or I'll leave you there another week."

The green murk in the jar boiled; the skull stared out with hateful, bulging eyes. After an extended moment, it blinked. It stuck out a long, ghostly tongue and licked its own eyeball absentmindedly. My own eyeball flinched in sympathy. _"Fine,"_ the skull spat. "Doesn't change what I saw between you and Locky. I thought we _had_ something, Carlyle."

I played it cool; I battled down a blush through sheer force of will. "Not sure I'm following you. Regardless, I—"

"Don't try to change the subject. _I know._ Really couldn't tie it on your own, could you?" From my mouth emerged an angry, embarrassed squeak.

"You're going back under," I said. Grabbing the jar with an angry flourish, I leaned down over the floor.

"Wait!" cried the skull. "A moment of your time!"

I paused, and despite my better judgement, asked, "…What?"

The googly eyes of the skull gleamed. "If I'm going back under there, can you at least tuck the duvet in a little? I didn't have the best view last time."

With that said, the skull in the jar was stuffed unceremoniously into the darkness of the back of my wardrobe, behind my assortment of hangings.

Now I stood in front of my cracked wardrobe mirror, huffing in anger and humiliation. I was breathing hard; my face flushed pink. I recalled myself flushing in the same spot just weeks earlier, with Lockwood's hands encircling my waist, and blushed even deeper. Turning away from the mirror, I collapsed on my bed with a groan, willing the heat in my face to fizzle out into nothing against the coolness of my pillow. Not for the first time, I was grateful that I was the only one who could hear the skull's increasingly appalling banter.

"Lucy?" said a voice from the doorway. My heart skipped a beat in my chest. _Of course_ Lockwood would make an appearance now _._ "Are you alright? Can I come in?" The padded strides of his footfalls approached, then stopped nearby. After a moment's hesitation, Lockwood settled himself beside me, compressing the bed underneath his weight. The mattress shifted, and my hip pressed against him. He didn't move away, and I felt my blush deepen. I turned my face from him; Lockwood would _not_ see me like this again. "Lucy?" he prompted softly, pressing a light hand to my shoulder.

Ignoring the rapid-fire palpitations my heart gave at his casual contact, I said, "I'm fine, thanks. Just feeling a bit under the weather." There was a long pause. "You might want to leave," I added, a little desperately. Another pause. The hand on my shoulder tensed.

"I'm not leaving until I get a look at you. Please, Luce, do sit up." I frowned into the pillow. To my utter confusion, Lockwood was using the _tone_ —that famous leaderish tone he always took on when he was really convinced George and I should do something remarkably stupid with him. The tone used when he tried to convince us to visit Combe Carey Hall. Now he was using it on me to make me…what? _Look_ at him?

"Lockwood," I said, face still buried, "I'm really—"

" _Lucy_." He was not to be persuaded. I gave a deep, long-suffering sigh into the pillow. There was no helping it. Slowly, averting my eyes, I eased up into a sitting position, my back pressing against the cool metal headboard of my bed. The heat in my face ignited again. I hoped he mistook my redness for illness.

I peered up at him just as both of his palms alighted on each side of my face. His hands were cool and large. His finger-tips settled against my ears, the insides of his palms along the sides of my lips. Lockwood's dark eyes studied me up close. I could have counted his eyelashes.

If my heart was racing before, I could say it was sprinting now. I suddenly felt a bit light-headed. "Goodness, Luce, you're burning up," said Lockwood. Well, he wasn't wrong. I was fairly certain my body temperature had risen 100 degrees in the past two seconds.

He leaned in closer, and a hot blush pumped through my veins, through my walloping heart. He pressed his forehead against mine. My blush pushed its way beyond my hairline. "Hmm," he said, clicking his tongue. He rubbed his thumbs idly along my cheeks for a moment, leaving a trail of lingering electricity in their wake. His elegant nose grazed the side of my own. I clenched my hands in my lap, willing myself not to tremble.

Lockwood parted, his hands now on his knees, and peered at me—a long, considering look. I could've sworn his dark eyes saw right through me—saw every thought, every feeling I had for him, laid bare. Finally, he spoke up, "You don't look too great, Luce. You're a bit flushed. I swear you're getting worse by the minute." His dark eyes glanced over me—glinting even in the dim light, intent in their perusal.

I cleared my throat, my blush seeping down my neck at his inspection. "Yes, um. Well. I did tell you." I coughed again. He didn't respond. I began to feel a bit defensive. "I'm not…feeling my best," I offered lamely. Even to myself, I didn't sound very convincing.

He blinked, long and slow. "I believe you," he said, and my eyes widened in surprise. And then Lockwood was easing closer towards me, his hand pressing down the mattress by my thigh. "You haven't been yourself lately," he said, his warm breath caressing my flushed cheeks, his gaze seeming to linger near my chin. His other arm gripped the metal headboard above me, and I froze. "You hardly leave your room anymore. You volunteer for all the boring side-jobs during cases. Tell me," he said suddenly, murmuring now. He glanced up, locking his eyes with mine. "Are you suffering from delayed ghost-lock?"

My lips trembled, trying and failing to form words, and Lockwood's curved into a coy smile. He looked down again, and shifted. His slim fingers skimmed slowly, slowly down the skin of my neck to the hollow underneath my throat, lingering wherever they touched. A trail of fire burned in a trail behind his moving fingertips, eliciting a tight gasp that hadn't known was caught between my lips. He peered up at me again; impossibly, he seemed closer now than ever. He spoke very quietly. He smelled _incredible_. "An interesting case of ghost-lock you have…" Lockwood's fingers skimmed their way along my collarbone, taking their time, moving back and forth, back and forth. He pressed the side of his face into mine, so that he was murmuring directly into my ear, "Usually agents report a feeling of coldness stealing over them prior to ghost-lock. But you…" His fingertips paused in their motions about my neck, and I felt him smile against my ear. I flushed deeply. "…feel _quite_ warm, Luce." I found myself closing my eyes, savoring this proximity.

"What _are_ you two doing." And just like that, Incident 3 ended. Lockwood parted from me almost too easily, turning to face George who stood in my bedroom doorway.

"Luce isn't feeling her best," said Lockwood simply, wearing his trademark Lockwood smile. "I'm heading down to make her a cuppa. Keep her company, will you?" With that said, he stepped around George's girth and descended the stairs.

A pause. George turned toward me, eyebrow raised. I said nothing. He said nothing. Then,

"So you're _ill_ ," George said, chewing over the words as if they left a bad taste in his mouth. I nodded in response; I still didn't trust myself to speak.

"Never seen a sick person as red as you without being carted off to hospital—look at you. Rosier than a slapped baby's bottom." He shook his head, then gave me that pointed look I'd grown accustomed to these past few months. "Remember what I told you, Luce— _I know_. That said, please don't drool on the bedspread when Lockwood comes back. It'll put him off."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hello and apologies for the delay! Thanks so much for your kind reviews and helpful feedback. It's great to have readers actually reading my drivel, let alone enjoying the ride! Again, thank you!**

 **Updates will be sporadic. My New Years resolution is to focus more on my personal writing. *snorts* We'll see how that goes. I don't believe I'll be abandoning this little project...just updating only when I feel I have something worth sharing. With that said, I hope you enjoy Incident 4!**

 _Incident 4_

I am, first and foremost, a person of action. George often chastises me for this—acting without thinking—but even he's got to admit my knee-jerk reflexes have saved Lockwood and Co. on numerous occasions. There was the Screaming Staircase fiasco, of course—when I unclasped Annie Ward's locket hoping against hope that the vengeful spirit within wouldn't murder us all. Then there was my lucky reaction at the grave of Dr. Bickerstaff; I skewered his ghost moments before its hands throttled George's neck. And of course there was the lesser-known but no less admirable Lucy Tea Tray Rescue™. George had gotten out the fine china because he was too lazy to do the dishes, and right before the delicately-furnished cart crashed down the open basement door, there I was again—acting faster than thought. Action was my go-to. It had saved us too many times to doubt its place in my life _._

But when it came to what to do about what was happening between Lockwood and me, I was uncharacteristically stymied.

If I had difficulty facing Lockwood after the second incident, you'll understand when I say that I could hardly look him in the eye after the third. A full day had passed, and the same barrage of questions warred on with each other in my brain, pinnacling to one prevailing query: Where had this sudden change of behavior come from?

Despite my previous thoughts regarding Lockwood's sudden affinity for embarrassing me, I had difficulty believing that his escalating behavior was the product of his own ego. He respected me, for one thing—we oscillated saving each other's skins too often for this to be untrue. Naturally, my own ego told me other things. My heart would leap. Perhaps he thought of me as often as I thought of him—! And almost painfully I would bring myself back to reality to focus on more probable explanations.

Yet try as I may, I couldn't pin point the answer, and I knew I wouldn't discover it without asking Lockwood head on. Despite my desperate need to _take action,_ this was also the one thing I could not do.

Presently, I polished my rapier at the kitchen table for the third time that day, determined to wax every nook and cranny of its intricate hilt till it shone at the slightest tilt of my arm. It gave me something to do; kept me busy so I thought less about things I couldn't change. Lockwood and Co. had a case that night, and I'd already checked and rechecked our supplies half a dozen times. I knew I'd check them again.

"Fastidious today, aren't we?" It was George, leaning against the doorframe of our little kitchen. The fading light of day streaming in from the window outside slated against his spectacles, concealing his eyes so it was as if I was looking into a blank mask. Considering that George is rather inexpressive at the best of times, it unnerved me.

"Aren't you always saying better safe than sorry?" I said, returning my attentions back to the rapier slung across my lap. George didn't respond; the weight of his silence made me glance up at him again.

He had taken off his glasses, giving them a contemplative rub on the hem of his jumper. The words he said next came out of his mouth like an apology: "I can't tell you what he's thinking." My heart crashed like a stone through the tiled flooring.

George continued, "You _know_ how he is, Luce. Couldn't face an uncomfortable emotion if he were slapped in the face with it—let alone an emotion he doesn't understand." There was a pause; George was waiting for me to respond, but he seemed to reconsider. He eased himself from the doorframe, leaving the room.

OoOoOoOooooo

The case that night didn't give us much cause for trepidation, but it didn't give us much cause for excitement either. Our client—an old bachelor who had recently moved into a flat in Westminster—had called us about a "dark, loathsome shape that haunts the shadows, never approaching, but radiating melancholy." Despite the fear saturating the man's voice on the other end of the line, I stifled a yawn upon listening to his morbid account; this was classic Type One behavior. Later, George's perusal of the archives would turn up nothing of particular interest; there had been a death in the flat a few years prior—an elderly woman who died peacefully in her sleep, surrounded by loved ones. In other words, hardly the makings of a Type Two. I wrote down the bachelor's information and thought little of the case until we were on our way to Westminster a day later.

That isn't to say that we were stupid about it. When George was satisfied with the information he had dug up (done in record time, I should mention. _That's_ how lackluster this case was), we packed our chains and magnesium flares just as we always did. We'd been in the business long enough to know that Visitors weren't always what they seemed to be. But the truth of it was this: we couldn't get ourselves overly invested because, nine times out of ten, these kinds of cases were usually just a typical Type One—more interested in reliving its past one reenactment at a time than imposing itself on the living.

We arrived a bit early, but Lockwood's finger was just considering approaching the buzzer before the bachelor himself appeared at the complex's entrance—a younger, balding man with a slight pouch at his belly and wide, anxious eyes. We exchanged a few words. He left the key with us and departed. Without further ado, we entered the complex with our duffle bags in hand, made our way up to flat number 308, and let ourselves inside.

The place was small. A kitchen led straight into the sparsely furnished living room, and from the living room the lone bedroom and connecting bathroom. We took our readings, and soon found ourselves again in the living room, all looking at the same corner where a large, antique armoire stood in semi-darkness.

"Doesn't seem to be our client's style," I said, and it was true. The massive and ornate armoire stuck out like a sore thumb in comparison to the cheap furnishings offered by the rest of the flat.

"Quite right, Luce," said Lockwood. I could sense his dark eyes glance at me, but as I had been doing for the past 24 hours, I pretended not to notice. I kept my stare fixated studiously and guiltily in the corner. He spoke on, "I'd be willing to bet that armoire is a leftover from the old lady who died here, judging from the make. Probably an heirloom. I'm surprised the family didn't take it."

George cleared his throat, checked the readings at his belt. "Safer bet they couldn't get it down—look at the size of it. It didn't fit through the door. I suppose they figured it wasn't worth the trouble to take it apart. Also, temp's gone down."

"Right," said Lockwood. "Let's deal with this efficiently."

It wasn't too long until true dark had descended upon London, and the tell-tale Visitor made its appearance. It lurked in the corner where the armoire stood as a darker patch of darkness, as far away from the flat's lone window as possible, shunning the meager light the window shone. Sobbing sounds emanated from that same corner. A feeling of soft sorrow weighed against my chest—poignant, but weak. I brushed it aside like a flyaway cobweb.

In a matter of minutes, Lockwood had pelted the area with salt and iron fillings, dissipating the apparition so that we could go to the area it had manifested and seek out its Source. He and George stood guard, rapiers held at the ready. It was my turn to enter the unknown. Wiping the sweat of my palms on my leggings, rapier in hand, I eased open the armoire door.

And was blasted off my feet by a torrent of sound and wind.

All three of us cried out, all three of us lifted bodily from the floor. I smacked painfully against the far wall—not an amazing feat, considering the diminutive size of the space—but that also meant I hit it harder than I would have if the room were bigger. My ears rang; lights danced in my vision. Dimly, I was aware of the clanging of my tumbling rapier, the cries of Lockwood and George, and then the familiar scattering sound of iron fillings. The lights in my vision grew dimmer, and I felt my eyes droop.

OoOoOoooo

I rose to consciousness slowly and steadily, like a diver out of the depths of an ocean. Blinking in the light, I looked around. I was lying on a gurney in the back of an ambulance, disinfectant wafting in the air. Beyond the open doors, I saw George getting a bandage on his arm tied tight. When he saw me, the knot now secure, he hurried over.

"Lucy! Are you alright? You hit that wall _hard_."

"I'm fine." I sat up, gingerly touching at a tender spot at the back of my head. My mind was clearing. "George, your arm… And Lock—?"

"Both fine. You got the brunt of the blast—a very powerful echo, actually. Some salt and iron thrown in and presto—no ghostly traces. DEPRAC's axing the armoire now as we speak."

" _DEPRAC's_ here?"

George shrugged. "You've got to admit it's a bit unusual, that powerful of an echo, even if the Source was the armoire itself. Obviously, the Visitor had been a Type Two all along—but it made no go at us aside from that blast. Quite interesting, really."

I rubbed the sore spot at the back of my head again. Powerful echoes like this were unusual, but not unheard of. There was little a team could do to prepare for such an event. "Yes, exactly what I was thinking," I replied. " _Fascinating_." I peered past George. "So…"

"Where's Lockwood?" George's glasses glinted, and even his placid face couldn't hide his amused smirk. "Oh, he's been more or less at your side the entire time you've been out, but he keeps getting sidetracked. The emergency services made the mistake of saying you were _probably_ fine—they think you passed out more from the psychic blast than actually hitting your head. He's over there, quibbling with the driver to escort you to hospital."

I followed George's finger where he pointed, and as soon as I did, the emergency services technician saw me as I was: alert and okay. Pausing mid-sentence, she gave Lockwood a smart tap on the shoulder, jabbing a gloved finger my way. Even at this distance, I could see his eyes widen in surprise upon catching mine. My heart clenched in my chest.

"That's my cue…" said George, shuffling past the gurney. He hopped out the back.

Coat flowing out behind him, Lockwood rushed towards me and alighted into the ambulance, his expression an odd mixture of utter relief and concern. In an instant he was there, reaching out to me, clutching the arms of my shirt sleeves in his gloved hands. Just for a moment, he pulled me towards him, but stopped, reconsidering the gesture. Instead he squeezed my arms, said, "Lucy, are you hurt? Did it touch you? How's the head?" He glanced me over, as if expecting to find that I was missing a limb or something. I noted a small cut above his eyebrow, the salt dusting his coat. My heart gave a happy beat.

"I'm fine, Lockwood," I said. And because I wanted him to believe it, I gave him a weak but certified Lucy Carlyle grin, meeting his eyes properly for the first time since our last embarrassing incident.

Lockwood froze and blinked. Then he smiled—a big, glowing, Lockwood-megawatt smile that reached his eyes and warmed me from the inside out. And then, swift as anything, he kissed me.

"Good," he said, parting. "Stay here, I'll be back in a heartbeat. DEPRAC's wanting details." I watched him head off, leaping out of the ambulance, the warmth of his mouth still lingering on my lips. Before I knew it, I was calling after him.

"L-Lockwood!" I shouted, frustration prickling in my voice. Lockwood stopped mid-stride and turned.

"Alright, Lucy?" he said.

"You can't just-" I swallowed. The reality of what had just occurred finally sunk in; the words were robbed from my throat. My face heated; I was losing ground, and fast. "D-Do you, um-? Er, what I mean is-"

Without hesitation, he strode over again, peeling off his gloves as he did so. Stuffing the pair in his coat pocket, he hopped inside the ambulance, took two easy steps, and encompassed my face in his large hands, ushering me close to him. His voice dripped, low and desirous, "Sorry, I thought I was clear the first time." Tilting his head, Lockwood leaned down to close the space between us.

"W-wait!" I gasped, and obediently he paused, almost statue-like, breath intermingling with my own. I tried to clear my head; his proximity made it hard to think, but at the same time my embarrassment made me irritable and so sharper than I otherwise would have been. Before he could find a chance to misinterpret me, I said, "You can't pull something like _that_ and run off!"

He grinned, shoulders relaxing. "Oh?" he said, and there was a promise in the inquiry. I froze; Lockwood moved. Carefully and purposefully, he placed his thumb against my lips. It was a test—to see if I would pull away. I could've. I didn't. His voice purred, "What _would_ you have me do then?"

There was a hot tightening in my lower stomach; I took a shaky breath, fighting to clear my head—but his warm breath was against my face, the smell of his soap in my nose, his slender hand on my chin, his finger on my lips. It was a trifle difficult. " _Why_ ," I said simply, trying and failing to ignore my mouth's slight movement against his finger.

Lockwood's dark gaze now fixated near my chin. He brushed my lips over with his thumb, the joint gently parting their seam. They trembled underneath his touch, and the corner of Lockwood's own mouth curled up. "Why," he intoned. It was like he wasn't listening.

I closed my eyes. "Why _this_ …all of a sudden?" I tried to say it with some semblance of patience, but it came out in a rush.

We shared a brief silence, and then his finger traced over my lips again, featherlike and…inquisitive. Finally, he spoke, so softly—like he was afraid I might run away. "That night after Christmas, in the receiving room. You were staring at me, and I guess you caught yourself because you turned a bit red." Here, Lockwood chuckled quietly at the memory. I tried failingly to put on an indignant frown. Lockwood spoke on, even softer now, the tip of his thumb gently probing my cupid's bow, melting away my failure-of-a-scowl with each soft nudge. "I realized I was quite happy that you..." he trailed off. "Well, I won't speak for you. But realized I wanted to be the sole reason you blushed. All the time."

As if in answer, my current blush redoubled its efforts, and Lockwood gave a satisfied sigh. "Ah, there it is," he said knowingly. He reached up, brushed my cheek with the back of a hand, stray fingers sweeping at my temple. The heat in my face flared at the new contact like a fire to gasoline.

I swallowed, looked at him hard through my embarrassment. "That is the most _lunatic_ reasoning I've ever—"

"Perhaps," he said, cutting me off. His hand smoothed up into my hair to ensnare there; his voice dropped deliciously: "But you don't have the same view I do."

Hesitantly, as if to gauge my reaction, Lockwood's thumb slipped to my chin. Gently, but firmly, he tilted my face up towards his own.

Unlike the first, this kiss lingered, soft and sweet and patient—if not a little clumsy. We were both new to this.

Soon we heard a party approaching; it was DEPRAC, exiting the flat with George. With a smile on those expressive lips, his slim hand disentangling from my hair, Lockwood left me. But the kiss lingered on me still.


End file.
